


Letting Go of Red

by Ayngelcat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Emotional Instability, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayngelcat/pseuds/Ayngelcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's pre-war on Cybertron and Prowl is Chief of Police in Praxus. He lives in a somewhat up and down relationship with Red Alert. When Jazz comes along, their newfound attraction invariably causes problems.</p><p>This is a prequel to any Red Alert stories set during G1 on Earth. Please note tags for warnings - I expect these to get more R-rated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The faint light of the Praxian dawn filtered through the blinds of the small apartment berthroom window. Creeping stealthily around in a manner not entirely in character, Prowl gathered his belongings. To his relief, his intention of making barely a sound was being achieved. 

The Praxian Police Chief’s circuits still sang, alive with passions of the night before. He would have given almost anything to get back beside the black and white mech who still lay half covered on the berth, to relive the remarkable moments of their entwining. But no – duty called. 

Prowl checked his chrono. With any luck he could leave before his lover even commenced the onlining process or – more to the point – before Prowl had to say anything about where he was going now. 

He stole a last look at the handsome form of his lover, suppressing even now a surge in his energy field. _It won’t be long before the next time – no it can’t be…_  

A small sigh from his vocaliser broke the silence. Reluctantly, he crept to the door. 

But as he put his hand towards the opening mechanism, there was a stirring on the berth. “You outta here already?” a soft voice murmured. 

Prowl cursed. Had he really forgotten how sharply tuned the other’s senses were? And especially to him, particularly in the wake of the things they had done only a few cycles previously. 

Turning back to the berth, Prowl cleared his throat awkwardly. “I have – business to attend to. This I made you aware of during dinner last night I believe, Jazz?” 

The other mech yawned, sleepily. “You mean – y’got _things domestic_ to attend to.” 

He rolled over, pushing the sheets aside. Prowl caught tantalizing glimpses of circuitry that glinted in the seams of his still loosened pelvic armour. Jazz certainly knew how _not_ to make things easy. 

But much as it was tempting to indulge again - if only to avoid what Jazz had referred to - it seemed that things needed to be put straight. 

“You are correct,” Prowl said, turning away. “The conference finishes in Iacon today, and Red Alert will be back. If I am not there when he arrives then he will become anxious. I have explained how it is.” 

Oh yes – Prowl had done that all right. Jazz knew many intricate and intimate details of this several deca-cycle long and tempestuous association that he would rather not. Despite the arduousness of their love making, he had also known it was never completely out of Prowl’s thoughts. 

“I take it you still ain’t said nothin’ to him then?” he said. 

Silence. The extreme discomfort in the Praxian Chief of Police was almost tangible. Jazz sighed. “I knew it.” 

Prowl let out a sigh. There was no leaving on this note. He put down his bag and guns. “Perhaps I still have some spare kliks,” he said. 

He crossed to the cabinet and removed a can of mid-grade, which he opened with a soft hiss before seating himself on the couch. “It isn’t as easy as you seem to think, Jazz. I thought I had made that quite clear from our discussion the other day.” 

Oh yes, Prowl had. And the discussion before that. And the one before that… 

Pushing the tousled sheets aside, Jazz got up. He too fetched a drink – a little stronger than Prowl’s. Cracking it open, he perched on the table, very aware of Prowl’s gaze, of the lust that warred with this highly honest and honourable mech’s extreme discomfort and guilt. 

“It ain’t gonna get any easier y’know…” he said. 

“I know,” Prowl said. 

“The longer you leave it…” 

“Look - I’ve been a part of Red’s life for some time. I have told you about his – issues. I can’t just cast him adrift. It takes – strategy.” Prowl was aware of the sharpness in his voice, of his fingers drumming agitatedly against the can. 

“You ain’t helpin’ him by not telling him the truth…”

“It’s not like that!” Prowl struggled unpleasantly with ‘the truth.’ Cheating on Red Alert - because oh by Primus you could dress it up how you liked, but that was what he’d been doing - was, after all, a highly dishonest situation, one that would normally have been unthinkable. It was complicated, however. Not revealing all right now was entirely justified by the circumstances. 

“This has to be done gradually,” he said. “At the moment I’ve simply told Red Alert that we need to give each other space – which we are doing. At an appropriate juncture I will tell him the whole story and we will part. That goes without saying.” 

“Really? And how many vorns away d’you reckon that’s gonna be?” 

“As long as it takes!” Prowl snapped. His doorwings twitched irritably. 

Shaking his head, Jazz took a long draught from his cube. 

There was a tense silence. Prowl frowned, trying to collect his thoughts, wishing that this was at least a tiny bit easier than it had been a while back. But he had to face facts - the more passionate the encounters with Jazz, the closer he became to the mech, the more he became convinced that no matter what he might have had with Red there was _something special_ about this relationship - the harder it was getting. 

Undoubtedly one of the best things that had ever happened to him. He was not giving Jazz up. But if Red Alert found out too early, if he _did something stupid…_  

Prowl would never forgive himself. 

“Jazz - you must understand what has _happened_ to Red,” he said. “He has troubled beginnings. His creators were violent towards each other. One of them used to…” 

“Yeah – I know…” Jazz waved a hand. “I heard the story several times, now – remember? “She used to put him in a cage as a youngling, to keep him outta their fights, an’ he got himself an overdeveloped need for security. Later he graduated in security systems. He excelled! The mech found his _niche_. He…” 

“It’s no laughing matter!” Prowl’s optics flashed, angrily, and Jazz knew he had pushed too far. He cursed inwardly, frustrated. This relationship could be so – _perfect,_ except for this one problem. The specter Red Alert hung like an ever present portent. He seemed destined to haunt them forever. 

“There’s more,” Prowl was saying. “I don’t know whether I told you this part, Jazz, but there was a fire. The femme died. Red blamed himself – said if only he’d applied his new found knowledge of alarm systems to his old home it wouldn’t have happened. He left the security industry after that – became a firefighter, but that didn’t work out either.” 

Jazz sipped at his cube. He was sure there was a great deal that had never ‘worked out’ when it came to this troubled and unstable mech. “Prowl,” he began. “It’s tragic. Really it is. But you ain’t responsible for…” 

“He was a mess, Jazz!” Prowl’s optics blazed. “I met him right after he‘d decided to go back into the security game. And look where he was working? A darkcycle club - and not just any club, but _Ganthis_ of all places!” 

He shook his head. “Ganthis! The most disreputable gambling and crime-ridden club accessible to Cybertron. It was totally unsuitable. He couldn’t handle it. I...” 

“I know…you rescued him.” 

“I _helped_ him, Jazz. Somebody had to.” 

 _And that somebody just had to be you, didn’t it?_   Jazz thought.

Ganthis was hardly an unknown to Jazz, either. He had never had much to do with Red Alert during his time there conducting covert operations for the Cybertronian Intelligence Organisation - or CIO - but he did remember the mech. It wasn’t good. 

Highly stressed and somewhat inept, the mech had been totally intimidated by the club’s owners. He had unhappily acquiesced to their requests to turn a ‘blind optic’ to various activities captured all too vividly by the security cameras. 

It had suited Jazz’s needs at the time. A ‘cleanup’ would have resulted in certain ‘mechs of attention’ making themselves scarce. Instead, they had wound up right where they belonged – behind energon bars. 

Prowl had happened also along at that time. He was part of a Praxian enforcement squad. Even then, he had made Jazz’s circuits burn with a longing so deep he could barely keep himself in check when the Praxian Chief was around. But Prowl was clearly ‘preoccupied.’ He hadn’t hung around Ganthis – had taken the hapless security mech back to Praxus. Jazz had not seen him for a long, long time. He had barely even acknowledged the depth of his own feelings – or disappointment. 

But ironically, it was this loyalty to Red Alert – the misplaced loyalty that Jazz had been forced to hear so much about - that had finally clinched how he felt now. Yes – it wasn’t only that Prowl was excruciatingly sexy, and dazzlingly intelligent. The honesty, the absolute caring attracted Jazz too. To see him agonize over this was almost too much to bear. 

“Look - I know the story,” Jazz said. “You fell for the guy. When you got back to Praxus, he moved in. You found him a nice safe job at the museum where he’s been ever since. All sweet n’fine - until the CIO assigned me to Praxus. And then – well…” he paused, rolling his glass between the palms of his hands. “I guess I screwed things up.” 

There was another long silence and then, an even longer sigh from Prowl. “No…” he said quietly. “As I’ve said, it wasn’t so fine - even before you and I.” 

Prowl’s mind was a-whirr with the past again. The rows. The complaints about the amount Prowl worked. The failure of he and Red in the last few mega-cycles to agree on even simple things. 

Then there was the suspicion, the questioning, the irrational jealousy – even though Prowl suspected that Red indulged in his own infidelities. And that was without the security paranoia, the need to have the house done up like a garrison; something which - given that Praxus was the safest city on Cybertron and partly due to Prowl’s own efforts - he had always found mildly insulting. 

Red had left a few times - proclaiming how he didn’t need a fickle, uncommitted mech like Prowl controlling his life. He hated Praxus, he said. It was pretentious and shallow, paling beside his home city of Iacon. Since Prowl refused to leave, he was going back to his origins. He felt safer there, could progress his career, would be more appreciated… 

But he always came back. _Needed_ to come back. And Prowl had needed it too; had missed him insufferably every time; had craved having the vulnerable mech in his arms again, of being his protector with a depth that brought pain to his spark. Their reunions were always emotional – and strangely magnificent. 

“The jealousy’s hardly unjustified this time.” Prowl’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “The arguments lately – they’re not Red's fault.” 

He looked wretched, as though too much more of the present troubles would be just too much. Jazz stood up. With an ache in his spark, he crossed to the couch and sat down, where he wrapped his arms around the other mech. Prowl leaned into him, trembling, a combination of passion and the desperate need for comfort, the other mech a reassuring island amid his own terrible confusion and agonizing guilt. 

Jazz held him, rocking gently. His whole being was awash with fierce desire – but creeping from the depths of his being came also a new protectiveness. His processor filled with savagely determined thoughts. _The hell with Red Alert. Prowl deserves better than this…_  

Yes - this had gone on long enough. It was time for Prowl to make a choice. And whilst Jazz knew that there was still no guarantee that the choice would be him, he had more than a slight suspicion that it would be; an instinctive feeling that the logic and commonsense that he admired so much in the other mech would prevail. 

It was worth the gamble. He drew back. The pain in Prowl’s downcast optics was appalling. Jazz hardened his resolve. He ran a finger down Prowl’s cheek. “Prowl – look at me…” 

Prowl looked up. Their optics met. “Look - I understand the problem here – believe me I do.” Jazz said. “You been with Red Alert a long time and you feel – responsible. You ain’t - if only you could see that – he’s a grown mech that’s gotta get on out there an’ deal with his issues. He ain’t never gonna do that while you’re doin’ it for him… 

“But that ain’t the point…” Jazz went on when Prowl drew back, a look of defensive indignation springing on to his face again. Jazz took a deep intake. “I wanna be with _you,_ Prowl. Not _you an’ Red Alert!_   I mean - mech - we can discuss him till we’re blue in the face, but the point is, _this_ ain’t gonna go any further with the situation th’ way it is now.” 

He sighed. “I want all of you, Prowl. I’m sorry – but I guess I just ain’t gonna share. It’s gotta be him – or me.” 

For a moment, Prowl just stared at him. Then slowly, he let out a long sigh. He had known all along this was coming at some stage but expected or not, it was no easier to deal with. “That’s not fair,” he muttered. ‘I can’t…” 

“Oh but you can. Look at me, Prowl. D’you want me? Or d’you wanna spend the rest of your days with some mech you gotta tiptoe round an’ agonize over pleasing the whole time.” He lowered his voice. “Let’s face it, there’s a war coming. You and I both know that – an’ none of us know either just how long we’re even gonna be around for. I for one, wanna make the most of it.” 

“And if I don’t make a choice?” 

“I’ll be makin’ the most without you.” 

Prowl looked at the other, took in the beautiful face, the perfectly proportioned black and white frame, felt the throb of the powerful engine within. Even more than the thrill that went through him at the thought of jazz against him, even now, he marveled at the brilliant mind, the creative genius that was as poignant as his own logicality. 

And when he really thought about it – pushed away the confusion surrounding Red Alert and everything about him, was he not left with one simple fact? _He could not let this slip away._ The intense pain in his spark at the mere thought of ending this now confirmed that once and for all. That, and that Jazz was right about the war - unpleasant subject though it was. 

The silence was intense. Prowl’s processor whirred. It came to him that other aspects of this situation could perhaps also be dealt with more logically than he had so far assumed?

Perhaps much could be made of the simple fact that Red belonged in Iacon, he here in Praxus?

 _I’ll actually encourage Red to go to Iacon,_ he thought _. I’ve never really tried hard enough – those other times. I’ve always spent half my time on the comm telling him he needs to come home. If I can help him get a job there, and somewhere to live…he could even be valuable to the war effort in the future..._

It would certainly delay the pain, the possible consequences. If Red was on the way to being happily settled back in his hometown, the news would be easier to break. Yes – he and Red would probably even stay friends – and he could still see that Red stayed out of difficulties. 

That wouldn’t – couldn’t – be so bad. 

“Here’s my choice…” Turning to Jazz, he wasted no time in kissing him passionately. Very soon they were back on the berth, their passions resumed, Prowl choosing to ignore for now the excuses he would have to make for his inexplicably late arrival back home.

Although delighted with both the response and the ensuing activities, Jazz nevertheless could not help the feeling that it was not quite as straightforward as Prowl had made out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Prowl resumes activities with Jazz, meanwhile Red Alert is still in Iacon, getting up to activities of his own - only to be wracked with guilt. Then an unexpected encounter puts new thoughts in his head.
> 
> *Warnings* this chapter for Inferno x Red sticky, and much angst.

He is large, red and shiny, resplendent with ladders, hoses and all other matter of highly erotic equipment. And he fancies me. 

All through the conference, I catch him glancing in my direction, a suggestive smile forming as his gaze roves over my anatomy. On the last morning, during the closing speech by the Government Secretary for Emergency Services, the gaze shifts unashamedly to my lower regions. 

He knows I know he wants me. He also knows that I want him too. By the time he gives me an unmistakable ‘look’ in the last applause, I’m edging through the clapping masses and am halfway across the floor. 

We don’t speak. He grabs my hand and pulls me from the room, through the enthusing throng, down some stairs and to a dingy basement corridor where I’m thrust against the wall. His intakes come in heavy rasps as he kisses me roughly, wasting no time in extracting his spike which gleams hugely in the half light, nicely curved and with a large bulbous head. 

I’m as well lubricated as the inside of a piston shaft. He fingers me roughly as I grab at his ladders, squeezing metal in my fists. His energy field flares over me hotly and I open my legs wider, allowing him in deeper. His fingers find my ceiling node and my own field flares back, crackling against him in blue flares. He grunts and a shudder goes through him. We’re both ready. 

Taking his spike in his hand, he thrusts his hips and massages it several times, showing off its magnificence, knowing that now I definitely can’t resist… 

And then he’s inside me, filling me, pausing for a moment before thrusting with an energy and desire I have not known for a long time. 

It gets frantic and frenetic, very fast. He lifts me and I wrap my legs around him, clutching at the wings on his helm and digging my fingers in. We clang away in the gloom, each knowing the other would like to prolong this, but neither able to wait for the overload we’ve been dying to have all cycle. 

It doesn’t take long. His laboured intakes become a series of throaty grunts as he thrusts super hard, and quickens his pace. I’m swept along by his lust, drawing him in, the intense pleasure of the node stimulation almost painful. I buck in time, rubbing against him, making sure that the node cluster around the tip of my retracted spike gets all the attention it needs as I rise towards a tumultuous spike n’valve overload. 

It comes in a rush of squealing metal and a loud roar from him as hot fluid spurts into me. I whimper, poised on a pinnacle of extreme pleasure, holding the moment as long as I can before cannoning over the crest. My drawn out scream sounds above the noise of his excess fluid splashing n the floor around my feet. 

And then I’m clutching him closely, my head against his shoulder, mouthing soundless appreciation as my valve clamps his spike in time; powerful waves of sheer ecstasy as we both rasp and grunt in the aftermath of our release. 

Yet, as I cling to him and the tumult dies down, a great sadness comes over me. For I think of how it used to be like this with Prowl - always - but how it hasn’t been like that now for a very, very long time... 

It breaks my spark; the way things have become. I burst into tears, wailing loudly on his shoulder like a Laissa bird with a broken wing. 

“I’m sorry…” I gasp. But he chuckles fondly and holds me tightly. He does not seem to mind. 

………… 

A little later, we sit in the bar amid a hoard of other emergency service connected mechs. They most certainly have not been doing what we have, but are starting to look as though it is definitely their minds. These conferences at the Iacon Dome are famous for it. 

“What’s your name?” I ask him as he takes a long draught of energon beer. 

“Inferno. You?” 

“Red Alert,” I inform him. 

“You from here?” 

“Originally, yes. I’ve lived in Praxus for a while now.” 

He wrinkles his face in a way that tells me he doesn’t think much more of Praxus than I do. Then he takes another draught and grins at me over the rim of the tankard. “That – downstairs – it was something, Red Alert. You always get to know your colleagues like that?” 

“You can call me Red,” I say. “And no – not usually, though I’m glad it was good. It was for me, too. I’m sorry about the end part, I…” 

“Oh, think nothing of it,” he laughs. “I always take reactions like that as a compliment. Some laugh, some scream, some cry – hell – so long as my ladders and’ hoses don’t get all ripped off I don’t complain too hard.” 

I gulp at my cocktail. Evidently, Inferno gets around. I’m relieved we didn’t cable. 

He’s still grinning at me. “So – you single, Red?” he asks. 

I could lie, of course. But I shake my head. I’ve already decided that this liaison is not going to go any further. Now that the need is fulfilled and my burst of emotion has worn off, a deep nagging depression is rooting in my depths. By my very sitting here, I am only making my situation worse. 

“Are _you_ single?” I ask him. 

“Naa!” he laughs. “I’m bonded. But my femme – Firestar – she don’t mind that I go for the mechs. Says it keeps me wanting to shag the chassis of her five times a cycle. Too bad she couldn’t make it to this shindig. She’d have liked you!” 

A waitmech appears and places two more drinks in front of us. Inferno has finished his, whereas I’ve only just started on mine. “Drink up,” he says. “Thought we might have a few more of these an’ a bite to eat – and then I know a nice little hotel just around the corner…” 

“I have to go,” I cut in. “After these. To Praxus. I’m already going to be later back than I said.” 

“Oh!” he looks disappointed. “And there was me thinkin’ I was only just gettin’ to know you!” When I’m quiet and try to hide the sudden sadness that stabs at me again by sipping at my drink, he says: “Your situation. It ain’t like mine, is it?” 

“No,” I say quietly. 

“Your other half wouldn’t - approve?” 

“No. I’d never tell him.” _Though would he even care? He’s been so distant lately. Sometimes I think I could do it with someone else right in front of him and he’d never even notice._

 _Why hasn’t he called to ask when I’ll be home?_  

Inferno is shaking his head. “Relationships! I dunno – you gotta let each other go, I always reckon. That’s the only way Star and I muck along. You bonded?” 

“No.” Perhaps the melancholy in my voice reflects the fact that I no longer think this will ever happen. 

He sighs. “Ah well, what’s to be is to be. I always reckon. There’s always plenty o’decent mechs out there in the great sea of opportunity.”

He’d hardly win a prize for tact. Yet his voice is kindly, and I know he’s well meaning. I’m tempted for a moment to say a lot more, to blurt out all about how badly things have been going between me and Prowl; to cry again, to seek his advice and wisdom. 

But I hardly know the guy! And a mech who drinks, screws around and goes home to his femme? This is hardly a good choice of counsel. Besides, I can feel myself clamming up already, the paranoia that he already knows far too much seeping in like a cold and lethal injection. 

I get up, leaving my second drink untouched. “I must be going,” I say. “I really do have to get back.” 

“Shame…” he looks genuinely disappointed. That won’t last. A mech like this will have no problems whatsoever ‘entertaining’ himself, probably right through the rest of this cycle. He’s only just gotten started! I’m simply the first of several. 

“Well Red, it’s been a pleasure, an’ if you’re ever in Iacon again…” he gets up, and offers his hand. “Say – anything else aside, I thought your presentation on surveillance was outstanding. You’re a real pro. You oughtta get your aft over here, try an’ get a job in the Prime’s department. I wouldn’t mind teaming up some day professionally, I mean that – genuinely.” 

“Well, you never know…” I shake his hand, moved by the unexpected praise. Prowl never says stuff like that. Looking after musty old relics at the Praxian museum is, as far as he is concerned, the upper limit of my talents. 

I turn and leave, before Inferno can see the tears in my optics again, before he can suss out that my self esteem is such a wreck, I can’t even hear nice things being said without breaking down like a youngling. 

……… 

It is spitting with rain outside, that variety that often falls in the Cybertronian capital, with a light acid content that causes pleasant tingling of the panels but no more. I transform and join the lanes of grounders headed for the shuttleport, liking the feel of the light spray on my underside. 

Except that inside – I feel terrible; for nothing can erase the fact that I just cheated on Prowl, one more irreparable wedge that rises up between us like a great mountain of doom. 

And it’s all my doing. My excuses are pathetic. Never mind that he has been distant and inattentive lately, he is still my mate. Has he not always been there, protected me? And what difference does it make that we aren’t bonded? 

 _The bonding thing_ , I think miserably as the traffic creeps slowly along. It’s _my_ silly fear of commitment that’s been as much to blame for the failure as anything he might have done. Why did I not give myself to him, body and spark? That was always what he wanted. 

_Perhaps I should suggest it now - for I do so want things to be better. I couldn’t bear it if they stayed forever how they are. Or we split up..._

Tall buildings loom either side, their upper storeys invisible in the rain-soaked air and low swirling cloud. Other vehicles rev and sigh around me, lights reflecting on the wet concourse. Headlights glare, a blinding dazzle in my rear vision mirror. 

 _Or – worst of all, Primus forbid – Prowl left me…_  

I fight off all too well known feelings of panic and helpless, trying to keep my thoughts on the road ahead. _Prowl hasn’t commed_. _Does he somehow know..?_  

 _That’s ridiculous!_ I tell myself. _How could be possibly know?_ He’s busy; yes, he told me. Last night he couldn’t comm because he had an important assignment. I know he made a deal out of saying he’d comm today but – well – it’s probably still going. 

A hard job he has, being Praxian Chief of Police, and I should be more understanding. 

And I will be, from now on. For starters, I won’t wait for him. _I’ll_ make the com-call. I’ll tell him I love him, that he means the universe to me; that I must get out of here and back to him. He is my mate, my one and only… 

Besides, will he not be worrying about me, as always? I owe it to him to at least relieve him of that. It is the least I can do. 

But the comm rings out. Once. Twice...three times. Another call, and Prowl’s direct, stand no nonsense voice rings out: _“Apologies for my unavailability. Please leave a message, and I will return your comm as soon as I am able...”_  

“Just to let you know I’m on my way, hon!” I say airily. “Call me. Love you!” 

In truth, I’m mildly irritated. It was as though he just _turned_ the comm off. After all my resolutions, it’s disappointing – truly it is! I proceed on, comforted a little by the subsurface driers that now send intermittent warm blasts up through my frame, by a slight easing of the traffic as we pass the breakoff subway to the outer suburbs. 

Prowl does not comm back. When my fifth and sixth attempts still yield no more than my lover’s recorded voice, I edge to the outer lane. As the rain starts to come down harder, I swing to the right, enter a narrow alley and pull over. 

I’m now too annoyed to drive. Exactly _what_ did he ‘have on’ last night that warrants so much of his undivided attention? 

Another call, another voicemail. I fight down anger, and this escalating suspicion that Prowl’s ‘assignment’ was not exactly what he made it out to be. But I know it isn't that. Truth is, Prowl’s far too straight and narrow to even contemplate _that._ Truth is, Prowl is just plain and absolutely a complete workaholic. 

He’s so wrapped up in his job that he can’t even see how things are crumbling. Oh yes - this will be more ‘police business.’ A robbery, perhaps, or the capture of some hapless escapee? Something – as always – that’s infinitely more important than _me_. 

And now I feel a fool – and full of very different regrets. No wonder our relationship is such a mess – and I keep making these excuses for him! I was right the first time. It isn’t my fault, and I’m _glad_ I fragged Inferno. 

Angrily, I activate the comm again. “It’s me - duty obviously calls!” I snap when his crisp tone has said its piece. “Well I won’t be back today! See you whenever!” 

Snapping off the comm I transform, intaking heavily as rain streams down on the sodden street, glowing faintly from the glare of the highway behind me. I look down the alley and see that refuse bins line the backs of retail outlets, their contents spewing like mouths regurgitating excess energon. 

“Screw you Prowl!” I say out loud. “I don’t care!” 

……….. 

I stand there furiously, reaffirming my determination that that I’m not going back to Praxus this cycle. But there is a slight problem. Where do I go? I cannot go back to the city centre, the hotels will all be full. There was another function starting at the Dome, right after ours. Scientific. Something to do with ‘distant habitable worlds.’ 

A chill wind sweeps suddenly along the alley, driving the rain against my panels in a series of pings, rustling the light metal items that lie here and there. I jump when there’s a loud bang from above and look up to see a large chain swinging, clanking noisily against the rails of a deserted verandah. 

 _Acid storm._ There could well be one coming. I glance down the alley, my sensor net erupting in warnings as I fancy I see movement, faint shadows among the bins. I have to get to get out of here. I turn around, and soon cover the short distance back to the comfort of the busy highway. I’ll figure something out. 

But emerging from the alley, there’s a loud _clang_ as I careen straight into something solid, and a sharp pain in my helm as something sharp cuts in. “What the…” I stagger backwards, falling pathetically against the wall of the closest building as the universe swims and stars shoot across my visual field. 

For a good few clicks I’m conscious of only that, and the rain soaking my panels - which is starting to burn slightly now. When the street swims back into view, a tall figure fills my field of vision. Lights from the passing traffic flash on and off as they pass it. 

“Do you make a habit of barging around like that without looking where you’re going?” 

He has a strange voice, high pitched and with a curiously exotic lilt. As my visual sensors reboot properly, I can see now that he’s a flyer. Tall, with a yellow chest and large blue and red wings that taper and ruffle as though in annoyance. It was one of those that cut into my still throbbing helm. 

And now, a wave of alarm sweeps through me. _Vossian,_ I think. _Definitely Vossian_. And – well – we’ve all heard the rumours… 

Yet, I’m intrigued. I never saw one up this close before, and he’s undeniably - striking. I’m reminded of an ancient metal bird, swept down from above on the wings of the coming storm. “Sorry,” I squint at him, still lightheaded. “I’ve – er - had things on my mind, lately.” 

He is still standing there. An amused smile spreads on to his dark faceplates, which are handsome somehow - like one of the sculpted Ancestor statues in the mall. 

“Maybe you can help me,” he says. “I am looking for the Iacon Dome. Much as this weather is not unpleasant, it does make things somewhat difficult impossible to spot from _up there...”_ He indicates up through the haze to where the drone of the flyer lane can be heard through the low cloud. 

“Oh – yes – I guess it would be…”

 _It’s always raining in Voss._ I remember now, from my geo-anthropological programming.When the rain clears and the Cybertronian sun beats down, the fliers warm themselves on the peaks. 

I remember something else, too. It’s _very_ unusual to see Vossians in Iacon. They’re – well – not exactly welcome, especially of late. Not with the supposed call to arms of his kind from the gladiator super-mech in the north. 

“You’re going to the conference?” I don’t really mean to sound so surprised. 

His smile disappears. “There’s a problem with that?” 

“Well I just thought…” 

“I’m a delegate, if you wish to know!” he says angrily. “I’ve been far beyond this sector of the galaxy, and made great contributions in the exploration field. Just because _your_ kind are insufferably biased and some of _my_ kind have taken up certain _political views_ doesn’t make that any the less!” 

He scowls at me, optics red and dangerous. And perhaps it’s only because I’m still a little dazed, but I’m not half as afraid as I should be. There’s a sense of tragic-comedy about this guy. I’m struck with the almost fond idea that his paranoia and sudden burst of indignation remind me of myself. 

And much as I love my home city, Iaconians can be harsh and dogmatic when you’re different from the crowd. 

“I’m – uh – sure you’re right,” I say, wondering if the rumours are exaggerated. Rumours usually are. Especially when Prowl is expounding them. “Your work sounds very - interesting.” Somehow I can’t see a mech like this going along with some thug in a violent grab for power. 

“It is – vital. Our very future could one day depend on it. Just you remember that!” 

Another blast of rain-soaked wind sweeps out of the alley. He shivers, shaking water from his wings that sprays out on to the sidewalk - and I remember that it’s a lot hotter in Voss. “Well?” he looks impatient. “I’m not so ignorant of this place that I don’t know when the weather’s about to turn.” 

“The Dome is about five blocks that way. You’ll see the signs.” 

“ _Thank_ you!” 

He pauses a moment, as though carrying out a last inspection of my person. Apparently, he’s not displeased – for his lips curl in a slight smile. Then he’s off, striding away up the sidewalk, wings flaring as he veers too close to the traffic and causes an oncoming grounder to swerve. A horn blasts loudly, as something obscene-sounding is yelled out.

A long finger is jabbed in the grounder’s direction and some expletive yelled back. For a moment, I fear an ‘incident,’ but the grounder is swept onward in the traffic and as the rain starts to thud down heavily, ricocheting off my chassis in loud ‘tings,’ the Vossian resumes his progress. 

I stare, feeling my outer paintwork start to curl. I know I should be making haste to whatever shelter comes to mind, but I am busy suppressing a curious desire to run after him, to find out more, to say that I understand his frustrations if folks don’t appreciate what he’s about, because it’s exactly what I’ve had to suffer in life – and exactly what I have to put up a lot of the time… 

And that if only Prowl would stop working and try to understand, we’d be a lot better off. 

I watch until the stranger disappears in the haze and rain, letting my thoughts drift. _What was it_ that Prowl’s cousin Smokescreen said of Vossians, last time I was in Iacon?

 _Egotistical maniacs – but kinda sexy. If you like wings and thrusters, speed and power and all that pit. Personally, rotors are more my thing…_ he was drunk at the time. No surprises there.

Of course! His place is just a few blocks from here – just past the shuttleport.. _That’s_ where I can go. 

Why didn’t I think of it before?

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes I finally got here with this chapter!
> 
> Panic over Red Alert's whereabouts consumes Prowl with guilt and the need to go to Iacon and find his lover. Meanwhile Jazz's previous love-life stalks their relationship -and he soon has reasons of his own to go to Iacon also.
> 
> Warnings this chapter for sticky sex and extreme angst.

 “This time I’m going to do _you_ Prowl.” 

Prowl did not object. In spite of his systems still tingling with the strength of the recent spike overload, his valve was widening in readiness, the ceiling node on fire. Retracting his still throbbing spike to a mere tip above his valve he lay back, venting hard as Jazz slid on top of him. 

And Jazz was not deterred either by the recent pounding of his own valve, an overload so strong it has caused stars to shoot and lights to jangle before his optics, an explosion pleasure and desire which just seemed to get better every time.  

He thrust hungrily into Prowl, forcing his spike in deep, feeling charge from Prowl’s ceiling node crack against his spike tip as the other mech cried out…  

They moved, writhing together as the Praxian morning light streamed through the shutters, the energy field scintillating around them. Jazz paused, venting, holding back lest he overload straight away all over again. “This effect you have on me…” he gasped as his spike throbbed hard, barely held back release only the slightest hairbreadth away. 

Prowl agreed. Offlining his optics, he tried to savour the spike, to not retract his valve, to not do anything that would bring about what surely must be the final overload so soon into the proceedings. But Jazz could not wait. “Oh Primus…” he muttered. “ I have to Prowl, I have to…” and he began to thrust again. 

Prowl let go also, arching up into the spike, clamping hard with his valve while the node exploded in a rush of frenzied currents that raced to his core. “Oh yes, oh yes…” 

On the point of overload, the very peak of the crest, Prowl onlined his optics, wanting the desire in his lover’s optics, wanting to feel the pounding in his chest, the racing spark energy that promised such greater pleasures and unions to come. “Jazz, I…” 

But it was not Jazz’s midnight blue, Simpurrian optics that started into his. Instead, pale glassy blue orbs stared from a white face crested by a red helm; a face that crumpled even as Prowl crashed inevitably over the peak. “How could you!” Red Alert wailed above the overload. “You promised, Prowl! How _could_ you?”  

“Red…” Prowl gasped in horror. “What - no - I can explain everything! You’re still my ‘one.’ This - it’s a work related thing…”  

Frantically he reached for his beloved – but his hands clawed empty air. Red’s form shimmered briefly, the blue optics piercing pools of deep despair. _How could you…_ his plaintive voice echoed one last time as it broke up, dissipating, a lonely phantasm borne away by the winds of deception and betrayal. 

Venting, Prowl clutched at the side of the berth as a ghastly mix of pleasurable memories and guilty despair assaulted his processor. He went to sit up - but his synapses were sluggish; as though his processor and his motor relays were not quite connected. He collapsed back down. _Red Alert…_

Red had tried to call him. _That_ came rushing back in another torrent of vivid recall. Prowl had paused his thrusting into Jazz, leaving his lover trembling in frustration. “What is it..?” 

“My comm. I have to answer…”   

‘You _don’t._ Turn it _off_ …” And Prowl, unable to resist, had complied, the thrusting recommencing with renewed ardour.  

Now, a status indicator was flashing: _you have just experienced an_ _offline vision category 3.2: Psychological disturbance indicated. Attention required._ Venting hard, Prowl activated his comm-bank; then recoiled anew as several messages from Red pinged immediately.  

It was even worse than he could have imagined. Red had needed him – and he had not been there! And now, with the troubles between them recently, Red had _gone off_ somewhere in Iacon. And when he did that… 

Prowl called the frequency. The comm pinged out. It did not even go to messagebank!  

Fighting off panic, Prowl struggled to focus. How could he have neglected his responsibilities so badly? For was this not also the date scheduled for the Iacon inter-district conference? Was not trouble expected from Kaon, Voss and all manner of other problematic sources? 

Was that not the _precise reason_ that he had told Red to come straight back to Praxus; to under no circumstances hang around? That, and the fact that the weather in Iacon was so erratic this time of rotary cycle, the sudden acid storms that blew up being well able to tear a mech apart.  

_What was I thinking?_ Hell - what even was the time? The degree of light in the room suggested… 

Prowl checked his chrono. Oh no surely not - _almost midcycle_? 

With firm commands to override his over-pleasured circuits, Prowl, heaved himself up. This was a disgrace! Had he, Prowl, chief of the Praxian Enforcement Division, winner of the Orion Award for Excellence, really come to this? This time, Jazz had gone _just too far -_ but it was not his entire responsibility. He, Prowl, had _allowed_ him to go too far. 

Jazz. Come to that, _where was Jazz?_ For - now Prowl also vaguely recalled -   _Jazz_ had said something somewhere in the proceedings about going to Iacon for the conference also? A late request from the CIO boss. Or something.   _Oh by Primus – who’s in charge of the station?_

A datapad propped on the berthside cabinet at least provided the answer to that:  _Heya gorgeous - say - that was something earlier,_ the message flashed in fluorescent blue. _You were out for the count! But don’t worry about a thing.  Iacon’s covered and I’m at the station. You just stay there and relax…_

_Relax?_ Was the mech out of his mind? There was most certainly not time for that! It was at least some small relief that criminals did not run wild though the streets of Praxus with nobody at the helm of enforcement – but Prowl had priorities now. He must locate Red Alert, and bring him safely home. _Then_ he would decide what to do about the _other_ situation. Yes – he could and would not be dictated to on that score either. 

And even though his circuits gave one last pleasurable twang - an uncomfortable reminder that perhaps things were perhaps not quite that simple - Prowl resolved firmly to leave Jazz in no doubt from now on this time as to exactly who was in control.   

With this in mind, he strode towards the washrack. 

…………. 

“If you recall, three cycles ago at precisely fourteen point two-three of the cycle, I apprehended one Insecticon by name of “Kickback.” Subject was attempting to remove goods from the Praxian Main Retail Store without providing payment for the same!”  

“Right…” Jazz did not look up from the computer. Despite the enthusiasm of Prowl’s youngest graduating officer, he could find only mild interest. The activities of the kleptomaniac bug were hardly new – not even something Prowl would get het up about. Though that was kind of a shame, because Prowl was so cute when he was het up – and it was such fun calming him down… 

How Jazz loved the way the stress and worry from Prowl’s overworked processor slowly drained from his lover’s face as Jazz’s fingers roved over just the right parts. How delightful to see it replaced by fierce desire, a wanton lust that wiped away the strains and rigours of Praxian policing,  slowly consuming all with the passion of their joining… 

Humming softly, Jazz continued his examination of the files. They depicted pleasant looking resorts on islands in the Rust Sea. To think that, unknown to his uptight lover, Jazz was organising a nice relaxing holiday, with proceeds from the CIO Public Benevolent Fund! Soon there’d be much more of what happened last night. Jazz couldn’t wait to break the news. 

Which he should do soon, as Prowl had probably slept on long enough; something at which - Jazz thought affectionately - he would probably not be wholly pleased… 

But that would soon be overcome. Prowl would be amply cheered by how well things had gone this cycle; for Jazz had cleaned up, finished the filing and tied up several loose ends on old investigations. He had answered calls, impressed Praxian citizens with the CIO presence in the office and even persuaded Soundwave to let him stay here and not be at that tiresome conference in Iacon - the last place Jazz wanted to be right now, especially during a storm. 

He had also started Prowl’s newest recruit, Streetwise, off on a new investigation - that of the offworld arms racket that Jazz suspected was operating right here in Praxus - something about which, despite his skepticism on the subject, Prowl would be pleased. Yes – by the time Jazz had _sensitively_ explained the activities so far this cycle, Prowl would be very happy to take on just where they had left off before. 

“Sir?” Hunter was still standing there. Jazz supposed he should pay the guy some attention – Streetwise had gotten enough earlier. Switching the computer screen back to the Praxian Police logo, he swung his chair around.

“Now then - what ’s goin’ on?” 

The young officer swallowed. Then he jutted his chin out. Jazz suppressed a smile. It was not hard to tell who had trained him.  

“I just thought you should know, Sir, that the matter was in court this morning and the bug got away with it. His lawmech argued that the said Insecticon was the victim of species discrimination. He allegedly panicked, exiting the store in fear of his life and forgetting to leave the merchandise behind. The judge bought it, even though evidence of this ‘incident’ seemed to be rather – lacking.”  

“Is that so?” Jazz could not suppress a chuckle.“Well - y’know what I’ve said about civilian judges here. Mech probably thought the bug was cute…” 

“That’s just it Sir - we had a visiting judge - one who’s attached to the Iacon Judiciary. He’s far from a soft touch. And you’ll never guess who Kickback’s lawmech was. It was that cocky yellow one that Prowl was after on Ganthis!”

The smile vanished from Jazz’s face as something froze, inwardly. “ _Swindle?”_   

“I believe that’s his designation, Sir.” 

“He’s here? In Praxus?” 

“Er - obviously, Sir. Well - _was,_ earlier this cycle anyway. But…” the mech drew himself up importantly again. “I observed that the Insecticon and this Swindle departed together, and that the lawmech did not appear to have any other clients.”  

Uncomfortable feelings stirred in Jazz. His mind went back to the Iacon High Court, to Starscream’s trial, to the strutting yellow lawmech and the smug expression on his face when the Quintesson judge had proclaimed the Vossian innocent of murdering his partner Skyfire on the off world expedition.  

A deep anger stirred. Swindle had made much of the result, acquired a reputation as the best defense lawmech on Cybertron. Relegated back to Ganthis, All Jazz’s commitments to the science academy, his efforts to see justice done had come to nothing. He had looked like a  fool.  

Worse, he would never, ever believe that the verdict was right, that someone, somewhere had not handsomely paid off both judge and lawmech. 

What the rookie said was interesting, however. Swindle had gained more than enough kudos to keep himself well employed by Iacon’s more elite criminal class for the rest of his life. Why was he bothering with a bug? _And what was he doing here?_

“Although it was not entirely within protocol, I followed them,” Hunter went on. “They proceeded to the Transit Port, where I observed a rendezvous with one Scavenger and one Vortex– also mechs of interest, as I understand. Swindle and Vortex boarded a shuttle. They departed.” 

Jazz’s processor whirred. Scavenger was a construction mech who’d been hanging around Praxus, having fallen out with this cohort at the Halco Mine on the Iron Plains. He was, like the Insecticon, more of a nuisance than a threat. Vortex, however, was a different matter - a Tarnian rotary, known for his somewhat creative methods of dealing thoroughly with any mech foolish enough to jack off certain connections in the Cybertronian underworld. 

Including arms dealing type connections. _He’s behind the operations here? And _ Swindle’s _involved?_

Jazz felt a warm glow of excitement growing inside. The new assignment suddenly got a great deal more interesting. _Imagine if I could bust the Kaonese ring from here? That would put me back in favor in Iacon. Better still_ \- _I might even nail that yellow glitch…_

He remembered the humiliation of the defeat, his ‘posting’ to Ganthis. What sweet revenge if Swindle could be brought down now; besides which - better and better - what a splendid reason to tell Soundwave that there _must_ be a permanent CIO presence in Praxus!

Hunter shifted. Jazz smiled at the eager looking youngster. _“_ Thanks - good work, kid. Make sure y’do a full report – and forget the protocol bit. I’ll be given the chief a glowing rap just as soon as he gets here  and hey - we might just find a reason to bring that bug back in for a few questions, huh?”

Hunter beamed. “Why, _thank_ you Sir. I’ll get right on to it!” 

He turned to leave - but as he did so the door opened and Streetwise appeared. “Excuse me Sir…” the young mech seemed flustered. “There’s a mech from Iacon on the command post comm. He says he must speak with you.”

Jazz’s excitement evaporated. _Only one mech who’d call form Iacon and that’s Soundwave. Don’t tell me he can’t cover it after all…_

“I’ll call him back,” Jazz said pleasantly, thinking he needed time to concoct another excuse. And make his ‘recommendation’. Hell – all this excitement! Above all, his thoughts were already returning to the expression on Prowl’s face when they saw each other again soon, the flare of the powerful energy field that Prowl would try so hard to suppress – and fail at so abysmally.  

He smiled at the pair. “Now, if the two of you could carry on with the duties you were previously assigned…”

“Uh…” Hunter glanced anxiously at Streetwise, and back to Jazz. “I tried to fob this mech off, Sir, but he’s got a really posh accent and he - uh – he’s kinda important. He insisted. He said the matter was urgent”. 

It took Jazz only microclicks to work out who this was, and to conclude that what had been going to be an easy shift and pleasant reunion with Prowl was rapidly turning into something a great deal more complicated. By the time this cycle was over, he suspected that they’d both need that holiday.

“I’ll take it…” Pushing past the now surprised looking recruits, Jazz proceeded briskly to the command post.

………….

 _I really_ must _be more in control_ … 

As Prowl doused himself in the wash rack, he reflected on this fact, recalling only too well that things had gotten far to way _out_ of control – ever since time he’d found himself back on Ganthis that time, a long time after his first meeting with Jazz. 

Much had happened during the vorns. They’d talked late, and Prowl had found himself delighted to see the interesting mech again - even if Jazz did seem a little downcast. Enthusiastically, he’d told him all about the Orion award, the station and his every day life - in a way he realized sadly that he had not done with Red for some time. And he’d confided in the other…

“Alas I must confess that I’m here on family business. A relation of mine - Smokescreen – has become attached to some disreputable types who frequent this place. Some very dodgy deals have been going down here, and he has lost a lot of money. I would very much like to find out who is responsible.” 

Jazz had stared at him for a moment. Then he’d laughed. “Pal - I’m sorry about yer relation, but this is Ganthis. Jewel of Cybertron’s moons, a haven for the lawless. Dodgy things happen here all the time, but things’ve changed. There ain’t no such things as justice no more on this miserable wreck of a planet.” 

Prowl had been taken aback. He had not gotten to know Jazz all that well before, but he was sure he’d never talked like this. “Well I’m sure if we combine our efforts …” 

“Look…” Jazz had banged down his glass and regarded Prowl fiercely. You wanna know about justice - I’ll tell you about justice…” 

And he’d told Prowl all about the Starscream trial whilst Prowl realised - with more than a slight pang of guilt - that he’d never known it was Jazz who’d been behind the prosecution. Or any details of it really.  He’d been stuck then by how easy it was in Praxus to be embroiled in Praxian affairs, to take only mild interest in the antics on the planet elsewhere. 

He’d vowed to change that - and felt compelled to reassure Jazz. “You know - sometimes things don't run out the way we think they will - because in fact, justice _does_ get done. A Quintesson found Starscream innocent. Is it possible he didn’t..?” 

“Oh he did it!” Jazz said bitterly. “I ain’t never been more certain o’nothin’ in my life. Look at the facts! An experienced shuttle-explorer disappears without a trace? Makes no sense. Look at public opinion. _Everyone_ thinks he did it. And Quintessons?” Jazz threw up his hands. “Who knows?” 

“I must say, the procedures did seem rather - odd,” Prowl agreed, thinking that he really knew little about Quintessons except that at some point far back in history they had created his ancestors, and that the judges never interfered on Cybertron unless a mater of public interest was at stake. "I have to agree with you wholesparkedly on one score, Jazz - the trial _looked_ as though it wasn’t quite right.”  

Jazz had scowled and swirled the dregs in his glass. “Yeah - which is why I can’t accept the decision. Or that Starscream walked outta there. Or that that yellow glitch of a lawmech Swindle got one over me – or that I’m stuck in this _miserable dump.”_

The sounds of the bar had buzzed lightly in the background. Prowl had leaned closer and patted his wrist. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just trying to say that sometimes we just have to do all we can and be content with that. You did a great job -  everyone thinks so. This will blow over. An agent of your talents? You’ll be back in Iacon before you know it.” 

Slowly, Jazz had looked up until he was gazing intensely into Prowl’s optics. “Thanks” he’d said. “I guess not everyone has that view.” 

Prowl had been all too conscious of the dark flickering optics, the lithe body, the intricacy of the mechanism before him. He wanted to _feel_ it intimately, to find out so much more about this talented being, who was apparently so sadly misunderstood. It had taken all Prowl had to not go much further in his ‘consolation’ of Jazz. 

After he’d returned to Praxus, he’d found his mind wandering, the gulf between he and Red widening to a new chasm. Instead of trying to mend the relationship, he’d buried himself in work, leaving early and returning late, Red’s insatiability and his need for own sexual relief was the only bridge that pulled them together as they drifted apart like rudderless vessels on a storm tossed sea. 

And secretly he’d looked for excuses to go back to Ganthis. But Smokescreen had bought a place in Iacon; and whilst this was with funds from Primus knew only where, he seemed more settled. There was no need to visit the iniquitous den again… 

And then Jazz had turned up in Praxus. 

Finishing his wash cycle, Prowl turned on the dryer. It was only a short time - a _very_ short time later that Prowl had had to say: “I’m attached.” 

Jazz had looked – surprised. “Yeah? Not that security mech from ages ago?” 

“Yes. Red Alert. He works in Praxus now. We’ve – er -  lived together for a while. I meant to say something before, but…” 

“Oh no mech, think nothin’ of it, I understand…” Nevertheless, Jazz had looked disappointed. 

But then, a wicked smile had appeared on his faceplates. “I guess it just ain’t my lucky strike. Shame. I thought my life was about to change - apart from finally getting a spell in Praxus, that is.” He seemed cheerful, as though he’d recovered from the ravages of the trial - which was now in any case very much back screen news.  

“I’d very much like us to be friends, Jazz. But that’s all.” Prowl had been aware of the strain in his voice as he said it, the flare that his energy field had unwittingly emitted. It hadn’t escaped Jazz’s notice. 

“Yeah - well - I guess if that’s the goods then that’s the goods,” he’d smiled, casting his optics over Prowl’s frame and looking more appealing than ever. “After all, bonds are bonds! Can’t say I’ve ever tied myself into that situation…” 

“Oh no, Red Alert and I aren’t bonded!” Prowl had blurted out. “We’re just – close. And – devoted.” And yet even as he’d said, he’d wondered if that was so for Red Alert, if whether the way things had been lately - his silences, Red's disappearances - meant it was something really not like that at all.  

Jazz was gazing at him intensely, reflecting the uncertainty that Prowl knew was obvious, the pull in his core that he couldn’t ignore.  “Well - if y’ever felt like some extra-curricular activities. Sometimes that can help…” 

“I don't I can assure you!”  

No – blundering down that path was not an option. He had chosen Red as a partner - and he should not judge Red, or the fact that Red had taken off again, or that Red’s own fidelity of late was decidedly in question. Red was troubled, in need of help. Prowl could not simply adopt the same course. It was a matter of principle. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“OK - I get it,” Jazz has sighed resignedly. “I just - wish it wasn’t like that I guess. Haven’t ever met a mech like you before - not in the force, anyway. You’re - uh - different. From what I’ve been used to.”

His smile had almost melted Prowl right there on the chair in front of him.

“But,” he shrugged, “this is a temporary arrangement. As you said before - I’ll be back in Iacon in no time.” 

_I could have left it at that - kept my distance. let him do his job whilst I did mine.…_ But Prowl hadn’t – the two of them were too drawn to each other, like magnetic moths attracted by each other’s inner pole. It was only a short time later - after a short dinner arrangement at which very little was eaten -  that Prowl’s aching interface mechanisms had found relief by plunging into Jazz in a small alcove just outside the restaurant; the first port of call on the passionate journey on of what was to come. 

Shaking his head, Prowl turned off the dryer and stepped out of the washrack. _Red could have come right by there and seen us…_   

_Shameful! It was the first chapter in the total taking leave of my senses – and now look what’s happened? If some fate has befallen Red, then I’ll be responsible. Look at me - a hapless, lovesick fool who can’t even turn up for work on time. Or be honest with a mech to whom I mean the world – whatever his antics may be.  I’m even a poor example to my staff. It simply will not do!_

Re-entering the berthroom, Prowl seized his outer chest armour _._ Drawing himself up and straightening his chevron, he applied it as he looked in the mirror. He jutted out his chin.  _Like the Prowl of old_ _I must be._

_And I won’t just ‘install’ Red in Iacon_ he thought, firmly applying his badge.  _It can wait until I am ready. And I’ll check up on Smokescreen while I’m in Iacon. I must show Jazz that I am no longer prone to his manipulations!_

Besides – Prowl cast a glance around - there were other matters to consider. Apart from anything, Jazz was - untidy! Look at this place – still only a temporary arrangement, yet there was _stuff_ everywhere. The lounge and kitchen were not much better, and through in the apartment’s cramped little office, came the whirr of a computer left on. Had that been going all darkcycle? The mech was not just untidy, but wasteful!  

Of course – _that_ was it. Irrevocably attracted they may be, but their differing lifestyle values rendered them just not ready for cohabitation. Well – not yet.  

Before departing, Prowl quickly visited the office, remindig himself as he approached the still lit screen that Red was meticulous about such things, and he, Prowl, liked that. This would never have happened at home. 

………….. 

On the command comm receiver, a red light was flashing. Settling himself in Prowl’s expansive command chair, Jazz watched it for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the desk. He could picture – _feel_ the impatience of the mech at the other end, could see the cobalt blue, diamond shaped optics glittering dangerously.

What that had used to do to him! Somehow now, since Prowl, it just – didn’t; though that didn’t mean Jazz felt nothing. There was a certain _triumph_ , for instance. Of course there was, when this mech could have anything, anyone he wanted. _And yet you still come back to me…_

For although undoubtedly a perfectly logical explanation would accompany the call, there would be other reasons. Jazz knew it.

 _Somethin’ of a reversal of how things used to be ain’t it…_ Jazz reached over and pressed the button.

“Mirage,” he said. “What can I do y’for?”

…..

Prowl stared at the computer screen, still not really able to believe what he was looking at. The pictures of Jazz with _somebody else_ had caught him enough by surprise. _Who it was_ had been enough to put from his mind, momentarily, even thoughts of Red Alert, and to go through the images again; just to be sure that he was not ‘seeing things.’

He wasn’t. There was no mistaking the elegant blue and white form, the distinguished alpha-caste features and uniquely shaped optics of the mech who graced various parties and functions in Icon’s most exclusive venues. Mirage, pure-caste of the Ligier clan, descended from the Lumina elite, owner of large chunks of Cyberton, looked even more charming and charismatic than he did at the Iacon track. He was a frequent victor there, being not only one of the richest but also one of the fastest mechs on the planet.

And there was Jazz beside him, a handsome adornment for the occasions, an expression of great happiness on the face Prowl had come to know so well as they posed for the cameras – laughing together, holding hands and on more than one frame – giving each other a media-perfect kiss…

Prowl looked away. This was – impossible. It didn’t even compute - Jazz didn’t even _like_ the Alpha caste! He went on about them: the obnoxious ‘borne to rule' mentality. How inability to face the decline of the caste order had brought about decadence and dysfunction. Their hypocrisy in upholding the ‘old religion’ – when really, money and power – yielded with singularly un-religious ruthlessness - had long replaced the piety of the temples.

There had to be an explanation. Prowl went back to the screen – hastily flicking on from the ‘kissing’ shot to something a little less confronting.  He looked at the date on it. Less than half a vorn ago!

A sick feeling like a slowly spreading virus began to creep through Prowl’s systems. Did _this_ explain why Jazz was so much 'better' when he’d turned up in Praxus? Had the luxuries of the Towers, the Glades, the Village and their various other well to do locations– not to mention the presence of a sleek Alpha body in the berth – provided sufficient healing comforts to overcome the miseries of the trial?

 _No wonder Jazz is so – skilled_. For yes, of course - were not Alphas famous for that? Their ‘abilities’ and stamina in the berth were exceeded only by their unconscionable philandering – which proceeded extensively, both inside and outside their caste. So it was said. On good authority.

“Darn it!” raising both fists, Prowl banged them down on the console. How could he have been so stupid? No wonder Jazz had had no qualms – no qualms at all about ‘connecting’ with Prowl when Prowl already had a partner. It was exactly what _they_ did – and no doubt Jazz had been taught by a master. Even this latest obsession with him giving up Red Alert was a very _Alpha_ thing – about control and conquest, and very little about anything else. Prowl would no doubt be history, just as soon as Jazz had achieved his objectives.

Anger coursed through Prowl. Anger and shame. It was bad enough that he’d made such a fool of himself over this whole affair already. Now he knew that this was the agenda…

 _And to think that I’ve been doing this to Red Alert!_ And there was Red out there somewhere now; Red, his devoted partner, wandering, alone in Iacon, possibly damaged and probably with nowhere to take refuge in the storm. Prowl glanced at the screen again, noticed a caption on one of the frames – one that depicted the pair’s mutually adoring presence at an evidently elaborate party in some crystal gardens. “Always” the caption said.

Prowl had seen enough. Striding out of the room, he commed the command post at the station. He wouldn’t bother with talking to Jazz on his personal frequency – oh no, the time for that was past now. Instead, an officious call would inform the CIO agent that he was relieved of his ‘in charge’ role, that Hunter was more than capable of assuming temporary command whilst Prowl went directly to Iacon.

Attending to what really counted was never more of an imperative.

But it was Hunter himself who answered the comm. “I’m sorry Sir,” he said. “Jazz is on the comm to - uh - some Alpha-mech from Iacon. It seems to be a matter of some importance.”

Prowl could barely contain his rage. “Interrupt him!” he roared. “And tell him there is no matter of greater importance than what I need to speak to him about now!”

……..

“There’s a problem,” the upper caste voice drawled down the comm.

“Really? Yeah – I heard it was the motherboard of all storms…”

“I don’t mean that sort of a problem!” Jazz smiled slightly at the evident impatience, the sure signs that the mech on the comm was not quite as in control as he liked to be. It was kind of amusing, really – not at all a source of intimidation, as once it had been.

“I’m at the Dome,” Mirage said. “A certain other personage is here. I’d rather he wasn’t. I want the CIO to do something about it.”

 _Starscream,_ Jazz thought, his circuits rippling in renewed desire for retribution.

But he controlled his excitement. _Don’t give_ nothin’ _away._  “Soundwave is there,” he said pleasantly. “He’s more than capable of handling any situation that might arise. If you like, I can make sure you receive his personal attention…”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it! He doesn’t listen to me any more, Jazz. I need _you_ here.”

Sitting back in the chair, Jazz crossed his pedes on the console. “Don’t you think I’ve rather done my piece with this particular issue? I mean – I know Starscream’s failed little jaunt lost you a lotta money. An y’ never did get your offworld title to this far-flung hellhole he an’ Skyfire were going to, wherever that is…”

“That has nothing to do with it!” Mirage snapped. “This is about what happened on that _far flung hellhole_ – and you know it.”

“Yeah well – I tried, didn’t I? The Quints thought otherwise…”

“The Quintessons! Undoubtedly the most corrupt beings in this entire sector of the quadrant! And as for that mech who defended Starscream…”

“The Quintessons are _your_ direct creators, and _experts_ at ajuducation,” Jazz said smoothly, pleased at his ability to say the exact opposite of how he felt in the interests of causing the Alpha-mech such extreme discomfort. Oh how the tables had turned!

There was a momentary silence. Jazz sensed Mirage assessing his words, working out tactics of his own. Such had been their relationship - always one that had to outwit the other. The problem was, Mirage had usually won – the ‘victory’ nearly always ‘celebrated’ with the extreme passion that only Alphas seemed able to create.    

The memories were still all too vivid, Jazz realised with dismay. “Starscream’s a free citizen now,” he said less certainly. “Don’t you think it’s time we accepted the verdict an’ moved on?” _Prowl would be proud of me,_ he thought. Yes – focus on the _now_ love of his life. That was a good idea.

“Oh come on Jazz!” The Alpha’s voice was softer. “You’re not fooling me. I know how much you want revenge; to see justice done, and all that. Look –“ the voice trickled like soft sand, “I know the terms we parted on were not the best, Jazz. But we do need you here. You’re the only one that knows the real situation.”

“The Prime is pathetic, his police force incompetent,” he went on. “I no longer trust Soundwave - or any of those lackeys who follow him around. He’s known to have Decepticon sympathies. And did you _know_ that our Vossian friend has been put in charge of this aerial ‘protection’ force that this Megatron mech is behind? Whatever Starscream’s here for, _Soundwave_ has probably organised it.”

Jazz’ systems gave a jolt. He hadn’t known that; and he had to admit, he’d had his own doubts about Soundwave for a long time now too. He thought of the investigation again, the trial debacle; the odd reluctance of the CIO chief not to press for an appeal. Mirage, as an Alpha, _knew_ things. There was an uncanny ring of truth to his words.

Jazz could feel the pull to the mech, feel his resolve crumbling at Mirage’s superior logic, at the strength of the resources Jazz knew could be put at his disposal. He could open this whole issue wide! _The Kaonese ring – is that part of this too?_ He thought again of that, of his own desire to be back in the limelight, professionally admired, seen as a guardian of truth and great ethics.

Yet had not the whole trial thing been another of Mirage’s whims, his own desire for recompense of the financial losses falling in nicely with Jazz’s own beliefs, making the ‘persuading’ of Jazz to prosecute an easy task?

 _And where did that get me?_ _Somethin' like this falls flat it could be so much worse. Besides, didn’t I say I was sick’n tired o’getting’ reeled in and reeled out like a sharkticon at the end of a linemech’s spool..._

“An’ say I turn up there an’ Starscream’s there, what’d you have me do?” he asked, a touch of defiance evident.

“Well – bring him in, of course. If he does something untoward.”

“An’ if he doesn’t? Or of he does an’ Soundwave’s standin’ there tellin’ me to let him be and not be a freakin’ idiot about a free Cybertronian enjoying his rights?”

“Then the opportunity for observation would be invaluable I believe.”

 _This is scrap pit,_ Jazz thought, not unhappy with the conviction rising once again that Mirage simply wanted him there, and that it had little to do with Starscream, or Soundwave, or any Decepticon threat. “Can’t you do that yourself? Or did your electro-disruption licence expire?” he goaded smoothly.

“It’s perfectly current, but I am not doing your job for you Jazz! And I’m aware that this _new infatuation_ of yours appears to have submerged you in things Praxian to the exclusion of all else…”

“I knew it!” Jazz cried. He had won, for once! “Well I love Prowl as it happens. An’ I ain’t comin’ to Iacon!”  

He braced for further recrimination; but instead, there was a sigh on the end of the com. “I didn’t want to have to use this,” Mirage said. “But since you have this attitude, you leave me no choice. The point is, you told me about your little holiday in the Rust Sea – even got me to contribute to the Benevolent Fund. Now – far be it for me to ruin your fun, but…”

Jazz took his feet of the desk. He sat up. “You’re gonna withdraw your support if I don’t do what you want,” he said slowly. _Darn it!_ Why had he gone and told Mirage about hat? In fact, why had he told Mirage anything about Prowl at all?

And without the funds? Well, Jazz hardly had the money to afford the holiday himself, did he? Not on the lowest level of CIO wages, as they still were.

 _A clean break._ It was Mirage who’d suggested that. Jazz was the one who’d said “Let’s stay friends – we go back too far.” Then he’d gone and shot his mouth off. Now he sincerely doubted there was even such a thing as ‘staying friends’ with somebody like Mirage – or what Mirage had become.

There was a long silence. “I knew you’d see sense,” Mirage said. His voice was softer again now – wearing the triumph Jazz had momentarily enjoyed. “Don’t worry about the storm – I know just how much you hate the rain. I’m sending a private shuttle. It’s acid proof.”

Jazz hung up the comm. He barely had time to gather his thoughts before it rang back again. _Now what?_ But it wasn’t Mirage this time. It was Prowl.

Despite what had just happened - not to mention the fact that he wasn’t getting a repeat of their earlier performance in the foreseeable future - Jazz was cheered immensely. Because – hey – they were still getting their holiday weren’t they? And Hunter could take charge here. Prowl would understand.

“Heya…” he began. “Say – you’ll never guess what, but…”

“Spare it!” A totally unrecognisable voice met his audios. “I will be making a trip to Iacon and whilst I am there I will be suggesting to your superior that you have outlived your welcome in Praxus.  I will be further recommending that you are moved on – IMMEDIATELY!”

 


End file.
